


Gods of Iron

by CountFrogula



Category: Touhou Project
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-14
Updated: 2015-06-14
Packaged: 2018-04-04 08:56:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4131675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CountFrogula/pseuds/CountFrogula
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A few thoughts from history to a historian; from a girl who is not quite a pilgrim, to a man who is not quite a traveler. Age-old ramblings on gods, on the five deaths, and on iron.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gods of Iron

"A historian, are you? ...Funny, that. Me? No, I'm visiting for more... personal reasons. I guess you could call me- I don't know what you would call me. Pilgrim isn't quite right. Sentimental, probably. Place still means something to a couple people. All these names, they were people before they were- are they history now? Is that what it is? I suppose that has to be right."

In the gloom of the near-empty room - wooden beams and planks, vines, and soil that had once been straw mats - the strange girl who was no pilgrim talked and talked to the traveling historian. The wanderer, the odd young girl who spoke, sometimes, with the voice of a tired old woman, but always, always with a smile. A little hint of mischief. 'If words could wink,' he found himself thinking, every time she spoke.

The creaking structure is not precisely a shrine - perhaps it was even a temple once, and by now it is hard to tell - so much as a half-ruin. Pierced by vines, laced with soil and home to a handful of animals, it still barely keeps the torrential rain off their heads, but rather than a sacred place, it brings thoughts of the carcass of some great beast, long since felled.

The wanderer insists that the near-ruin is nothing if not charming, and looked at it with wistful eyes. Perhaps she was mad, a possibility she raised herself, and quite cheerfully at that. At length, she asks if she might tell stories to pass the time. He obliges her readily; there is much to be learned from such things.

"I've got plenty of stories with me, ones I picked up some way or another over the years. I can't really help it. Comes with the territory, wandering around and picking this stuff up. I can share a few, if you'll spare them a little while; poor things need to be aired out and heard now and then, or I feel like they might just... fade away. Story's only true for as long as someone believes in it, you know.

Couple stories about gods in there, too. Seems like as good a time to tell those as any, with where we're going." A battlefield both ancient and, somehow, all too recent some days. A fine place. Nostalgic? Maybe that was too kind, but she had a mind to go and see it again, for some reason.

"Gods. Gods are funny old things. They're not that different from someone like you, and where they are, well, maybe it's not all that glamorous. You hear it all the time, don't you? I bet you got it from a crazy magician or a king once or twice, they seem the type. All those people who want to become gods. Who wouldn't, right? Power, immortality, your own cult, what's not to like? Well, let them have it, I say.

Like I said, gods are funny. What do you get out of it? Sure, power. And no, you don't die, or at least, not by yourself; takes someone _else's_ work, and a whole lot of it. Most would settle for crippling one, so they're as good as gone. The rest, though, you don't hear about that so much. Why do they want all that prayer and reverence? Well, part of it is because they're a little strange in the head. The other is that they need it. Without faith, they just wither away, little by little. Oh, some take longer than others, sure, but with time they just... fade out. Lose their minds, their memories, their sense of self, until they're not much more than a drifting presence. If you ever thought you heard a little voice - maybe one calling for help, even, or trying to guide you - when no one's around... well, that might be why.

There's the hunger. The need for faith to survive. There's the... you might call them domains, if you were feeling nice, or a portfolio, spheres, something like that. The things they can command. That's the thing, though, when you get right down to it. It's set for them, their potential and just what they can use it for, it's all decided from the moment they're born. Maybe faith can change it, but that's not in their hands, is it now? Unlike, say, you, if you decided to go that way with your life. You could do things gods couldn't, just because it's not part of them. Imagine if they were determined by it. If it decided every part of what they're like, and some of them don't even know it. If it tied them forever to parts of the world, aspects of it.

And then you have the prayers. They come all day, at every hour. They can never tune it out, all the screaming, cursing, pleading and begging around the clock. It does funny things to your head too, godhood. Why else would they go on with all that 'my will be done' and 'submit to my glory' stuff? ...So I guess what I'm saying is, the grass is always greener. Let them have it, if someone goes after that. No one wants to be a god. What they want is life and power. What they're trying to get is miracles on demand, and who doesn't want that?"

The historian nods understandingly. He had not expected these strange thoughts on godhood, these curious philosophical musings, much less from someone with her whimsical and frankly bizarre appearance. And yet he nods, if only for courtesy's sake.

"I know the stories of a few of them. Stories of all sorts of gods, but which one is right for today, I wonder?"

He inquires, politely, if she might say something of _substance_ instead, on the battlefield they would soon be visiting.

"...Well, that's a long story, and even we only have so much time. I'll keep it simple for you. What we have here is the clash of two goddesses. That's what it was, and that's what you're going to hear. That's their way, you see? It's _mortals_ that get caught in between, every time, but you don't hear about that half as much. That's how they like it, all for their own glory. They snap their fingers and the world changes. They smite anyone who looks at them funny, and demand worship. Gods. It's just a nice word for 'tyrant', in the end. I never cared for them, pardon my blasphemy."

Thunder conclusively fails to roll in the distance. The traveler allows himself a weak smile. He was not an unusually pious man, to be sure, but there were rules, especially in a sacred place, however run down. Who could fault him for being nervous? Still, he urges her to continue.

"There are all sorts of gods out there," she explains. "I've heard about a good few. Shall I tell stories of the sky, free to change - unlike all the others - but forced to change, too? Stories of the earth, made to be trampled, but still holding together long enough to catch the sky when it falls? Of war, its own greatest follower? Or shall I tell the stories of the gods of iron, building their own ends? ...Well, maybe I should explain just what I mean, so you can understand the rest. You're not in a hurry, right? We're not going anywhere in this weather.

I'll start with the sky. I know someone who'd like that, putting the sky first. The sky sees everything. The sky is, usually, the first thing you see. Grand, majestic, up there in the distance, all extraordinary and even mystical. Distant. People spend their whole lives trying and failing to reach it. Unlike some other gods, the sky can change. Have you ever seen the sky stay the same for long? I didn't think so. It changes - at least on the surface - in the blink of an eye, so often you wouldn't believe it. Moody little thing, remaking itself every day, even every hour. It can't help itself, though. And when the going gets rough, when you've got people wailing that these are the end times, the earth never crumbles, but the sky is the first thing to fall.

It can change, but that's a sentence as much as a license, and it gets clouded over from the smallest things.

The earth, now, that's different. Steadfast, maybe, if you'll overlook all the little indiscretions of mud, quicksand, quakes... maybe an undeserved reputation. Stubborn, too; muck and stone that never figured out how to be any different. True to its nature, if you want to be kind about it, but what god isn't? If you ever thought the sky was hard to read, you haven't seen the earth. Dig and dig and dig till your bones ache, and if it doesn't swallow you with its secrets, you'll only come out with little pieces from the surface. People walk all over it, of course. Stamp on it and leave their mark. That's in its nature, too. But it never breaks, not for long. When the sky comes down, the earth is there to hold it up, and maybe that's all that matters.

War. You ever think about what a god of war means? The vicious warlord, the brave soldier, the reckless duelist, they all pray to one of those at some point or the other. For their own battles. That's what a proper god of war might do. Guide someone else's battles, bless them, but keep their distance. Maybe more than anyone, they can't hurt a soul, not by themselves. The moment they raise their hand against someone, it's their battle, and what do they become when they mimic their followers for their own petty gain? What chance does a warrior have, in the long run, with no one above them to pray to?"

She sighs. A wistful look again. She is quiet, her stare distant, her expression cool. Something nags at her, wry amusement warring with a curiously haunted look. He asks after her, concerned, and she smiles and nods. Eventually, he inquires after these gods of iron, more for her sake than his own.

"Gods are as good as their gifts. As their miracles. You can see that, right? In the end, they might be here because people just want to have them, but by and large, the only thing keeping them on the right side of being downright parasitic is what they can give people. If they have nothing - no miracles, no boons, no blessings - then surely you can find someone else? And that's where the gods of iron come in. Murderers. Casting the light and warmth from the fire of their own bodies till they burn away together with every god they touch. Kill 'em all and save themselves for last"

Somehow, there's no condemnation in her voice. Perhaps she can't find the energy for it. Her tones certainly suggest as much.

"What does a god of iron bring but the forge? Technology, if you want a less poetic word for it. Steel and progress, two roads, two teachings that can never possibly end well for any god under the sun. When the first round of... oh, let's say better farming tools were made, so in your typical village, they didn't need to hope and pray quite so much for a harvest to keep them alive. How many gods of the fields died then?

With each gift from the gods, the followers have new knowledge, new means, new solutions to problems that would have required divine hands in the past. What use are prayers, when they're given miracles to hold in and dispense with their own hands? Little by little, with each invention, each boon, they give their followers and the whole rest of the world just a touch more independence. A little more power. A little less reliance on the gods. Step by step, they erode their own meaning and significance, as mortals hold the tools with which to accomplish what was once impossible, and to ponder the unthinkable. Gradually, in a rain of metal, sparks, newfound understanding and everyday miracles, the gods that had granted this would fade out of sight."

She coughs, then. Mumbles an apology. It was altogether too poetic; her thoughts had run away with her, and she was no grand and fanciful wordsmith. Better, then, that it stays simple. Another embarrassed half-laughing, half-sincere apology, and a promise not to go the same way twice.

"So when you look at the marvels they bring - a plough, a stove, or something much more outlandish - think about the miracle it brings, about the prayers it stopped. Think about who died for it. The gods of iron, they have more tricks up their sleeves... but one day, they run out. They're digging their own graves, but that's what they were born to do. They don't know how else to be, and like any of the divine, when they stop, they start to fade. What's there to do?

Magic's the same. Secrets are the same. A magician is just a bookish miracle worker without a following, after all. Secrets can build. Secrets can cut. Secrets take away from the ones who turn them loose. Knowledge is only iron by another name. Or is iron in our hands just a secret the earth grew? ...Well, that doesn't matter.

But they won't be completely forgotten, not at first. They still have one more thing to offer: Mortals, as they always did before, would still need something to believe in. Earth to kneel on while they pray to the heavens. A solid stone foundation to stand on, that the rain can't wash away too easily. Packed ground to stamp on under a stormy sky, as they furiously curse the gods. All the gods need to do, on some level, is exist. I'd say they oughta be ashamed of themselves, but seeing how much demand there is for it, it's hard to even say that; can't call 'em parasites if someone asked for it, you know?"

Gently, then, he inquires as to the battlefield at long last. The matter of iron, of strange skies and earth and war, he will consider another time. It is altogether too strange a topic to dwell on for him, though the eccentric girl seems quite at home with such things.

"One was the mountain goddess. A native goddess; the sort of thing you might call a 'mere' spirit of the land. I won't, though. Better to give a dead woman a bit of kindness. The other, she was human once, went chasing after power and became a goddess. Did well out of it too, in her own way. The old goddess of Suwa, the native goddess, she was of earth and iron. The... let's call her the heavenly conqueror - I think she'd like that, the way she put on all sorts of airs - was of the sky, war and, in her own way, another sort of iron.

It's not such a grand tale in the end. The divine like power, so the conqueror went on a warpath. She came across the kingdom of Suwa and challenged their goddess. They fought, and the goddess of Suwa lost. Badly. Some say she threw the fight, so her followers wouldn't get hurt any further. I won't guess either way. ...After that? Well, I say she died, but it's a matter of how you look at it.

She was only ever a mountain and a stream, one that learned to walk and forgot how to stay dead. First, she found a few followers, and that was the end of the mountain spirit. Then she found Mishaguji, those 'vicious' curse spirits, and that was the end of the loner. The nameless woman died when she became the goddess of Suwa. The empress of Suwa died with her country, done in by... her worst enemy, but they've grown on each other since, I hear. Time killed the goddess, finally, when she almost became a myth. That's something she never quite got back, I reckon. What's left? Maybe just an old woman who can't leave well enough alone. She's dead five times over, and that might not be the end of it.

I hear they get along alright these days. A priestess who knows how many generations down the line, a shrine between the two of them. Forgotten, pushed to the sides, retired if you want to be nice about it, but after all she lost, there are worse ways to die. The conqueror was young then, maybe still is now. Kid didn't know any better, it's not her fault. She had a millenium to learn to swing a sword about, maybe more. Might take twice as long again to learn when to put it down and lie back. Gods, though, they don't change easy. Not anything past the surface, anyway. Slow learners, the lot of them."

The sky could pretend all it wanted, but never truly lent its ear to the words of the earth; that was the way of things. The earth would bend for wind, rain and lightning alike, weathered and sometimes made greater, but never completely losing itself. It answered in kind, in time; hills that reached at the clouds, trees that swayed in the wind and growth that drank in the storms.

The sky would never - could never - pay any mind to these things. The greatest quake ever known could shake all the world below, and the heavens would scarcely notice. It was a world apart, ultimately. Meaningless, observed as a curiosity. There were exceptions, of course, as there were in all things. Times when the earth would spew fire, smoke and mountain's blood far and wide, scorching the air, burning the clouds to cinders and blocking out the sun. That always got its attention.

Pity, really. She just didn't have that sort of fire in her any more.

The sky was all-seeing, deaf and blind, in its own ways; she knew that much from experience, before her fall from grace. Not to say she didn't have her own sort of grace nowadays, of course, but some people just didn't see it that way. A lofty height she once held that she would not have wished on her worst enemy, in the past or the present. Once, she had thought it too much of a blessing to be wasted on an enemy. Today... well, when all was said and done, she was rather fond of her worst enemy. Completely taken leave of her senses, and gods help her for that.

They wouldn't, of course. No cure for being a particularly soft-headed sort of woman. Neither of them were that kind, or that cruel.

They were family of sorts, enough to reach out to the heavens to lend a hand. Was it pointless? Probably. Too strong a love for lost causes, and not much more, on her part. Was there nothing that could be done, no possible meeting point? The earth and sky could meet now and then, for fleeting moments. Horizons. Were they a lie?

...Probably. But they were good ones, and that surely made them charming stories instead. She always had a place in her heart for more of those.

Her reverie breaks when the traveler asks, quietly, how she knows of this. Suddenly she breaks into a broad grin, a mischievous laugh or giggle that borders on a cackle.

"Why, I was there! Like I just said, dead five times over and still kicking. ...Why didn't I tell you? Well, you never would have believed me. Or worse, you might have believed me, and then where would we be?"


End file.
